The things he half wishes half dreads she will say.

This just isn't working, is it?
I mean, to be honest, I never thought it would.
But you know what's really great?
I'm not worried about you being embarrassed by me, or not all together interested in me. Because I'm not all together interested in you, either.
Well yes, I would like to say that it's not you, it's me -- but that's just not true. I'm equally guilty, but you certainly aren't innocent.
Your constant need to be the smartest person in the room, and to correct everyone's little mistakes is really alienating.
No, don't make it seem like you're doing us a favor. We know you're smart -- but more than that, we'd like credit for being smart too. Or at least an atmosphere of intelligent equality. No one likes a know-it-all. Especially when you don't know it all.
You know what else, you don't really laugh at my jokes, you just sort of scoff. Sometimes that scoff is paired with an eye roll, or a "you're so weird." The only way I know you think I'm genuinely funny is when you steal my jokes without giving me credit, even though you never tell me it's funny at the time. And I'm not saying I'm hilariously funny, but I have a pretty good handle on wit. Do you feel intimidated by my sense of humor?
I'm quirky and weird and silly, and I like these things about me. You make me feel awkward and stupid for trying to have fun. Cut loose for once and stop taking yourself so seriously -- no one else does.
But besides all that, here's the real clencher -- we don't communicate well, which really throws me off. I'm normally really good at communicating with my friends, and in general. I don't know if it's just me, or if everyone has the same problem reading you. While it frustrates me to no end, in some masochistic way it makes me want to stick around -- to maybe one day crack the code and have everything make sense, or to maybe get close enough so that you'll bring down that wall. But on the other hand, I have to wonder if it's really a wall at all, or if it's just you.
Also I've never heard a genuine or significant "Please" or "Thank you" from you. Not once. Those are two of the easiest things to say. I'm not saying that sort of thing is a deal breaker, but I think it's a pretty good indicator of potential appreciation.
We've had some fun, but let's just agree that we'll probably never agree.

"Just cause you feel it, doesn't mean it's there"

Last night I watched a Homewood cop in an all black cop car stop a guy from pulling out and straightening up his car. I say stop, because pull over isn't a term that can be used for this situation. He was already over; he had never left over.
"Could you please tell me what you've been drinking tonight that you can't see a cop car right behind you when you're pulling out? I'm the most visible thing on this street." As I looked at his black squad car, I thought of it as a nocturnal creature, blending seamlessly into its dark surroundings, perfectly camoflauged until you pass right in front of it, catching the creepy glint of its eyes.
This initial comment was undoubtedly because it was a Friday night and there is one bar in downtown Homewood called Oak Hill, about a hundred feet from where this guy was parked. An easy D.U.I., the policeman must have thought.
"I haven't been drinking at all."
"Oh, really? Is that so, 'cause you sure smell like alcohol." This guy must have a hyper-sensitive nose, since he couldn't have been less than three feet away from and above the person he was addressing. Or maybe the guy reeked of alcohol, but I doubt it.
"Where are you coming from this evening?"
"Home."
"Home? What, do you live here?" said snidely, looking up and down at the darkened store fronts.
I tried not to gawk as the driver proceeded to follow through with a field sobriety test. I can only imagine how nervous he must have felt with a group of six or seven people recently dispensed from the coffee shop his car was parked in front of, tuning in to the entertainment.
"If you stop being a dick, I won't have to be a dick."
Just because you have a gun and a uniform doesn't mean you can treat people like trash. Or maybe it does. Maybe the vulgar and ill-founded exchange was actually a gift. Who doesn't love telling the "I got pulled over by a crazy machismo of a cop for straightening up my parking job" story? He'll be able to tell that story and maybe even retell it to some people for a week or two before it gets tired and boring. There aren't many stories you can say that about.

Dream

I had this dream a week or so ago:

It's night. I'm walking around the cement yard that jutted out behind my mother's old classroom at my high school. There's only the amount of light that would be given off by maybe two dimming street lights. All of a sudden I spot a miniature gun, it's barely the size of my palm. I pick it up and cannot resist the urge to shoot it. I shoot it into the darkness and am immediately splattered by thick blood. I'm horrified and, realizing that I've just accidentally murdered someone, I drop the gun and look around me frantically. It is only then that I notice that there are 5 or 6 people standing around.

A woman a few feet from me, picks up the gun that I've just discarded and tells me that if I don't shoot the gun again into the darkness, that she will murder the small boy standing between me and herself. Not wanting to witness this child's death and hoping and praying that I can't possibly accidentally murder two people in the same fashion, I take the gun from her and shoot again into the darkness -- and am again splattered by a lot of thick blood. I panic and decide that I can't possibly explain any of this to the police, so I must kill every witness there. I do, and am each time splattered with blood.

I decide that I will have to leave town, change my name, and start a new life if I want to escape what I've just done. I walk towards the cafeteria, which isn't far at all from the cement yard. Inside the cafeteria, a class is being held, students are seated all around in a fairly disorganized manner with papers covering every surface of every lunchroom table. I walk up to my mother, the teacher, and am preparing myself to tell her of what I've just done and my plans to leave and start a new life when I realize that I'm dreaming. But beyond that, I realize why I'm dreaming this particular dream. I remember going to my friends' Justin and Eric's apartment and picking up a tiny gun lighter in Justin's room and being startled by the flame. I'm still covered in blood, but explaining this to my mom, who seems entirely unphased by anything I'm telling her, or my blood-soaked body.

Then I woke up.